


Fire in your Heart is Out

by blueabsinthe



Series: Hide the Night [7]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, New York Rangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:56:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/pseuds/blueabsinthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Le cœur a ses raisons ... Hank doesn't quite know how to respond to that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire in your Heart is Out

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** dirty talk
> 
> Takes place on Feb 22nd at Lundqvist's Rock of Dreams concert.

"Do we need to find you another agent?" 

Hank looked up from his seat, where he was busy tuning his guitar. He raised an eyebrow, and picked at the middle string before he offered Brad a small smile. "Glad you decided to show."

Brad let his eyes fall to the floor. He knew he'd been avoiding Hank since their overtime win to the Lightning. Hank's shoes are expensive, but unassuming. They are black, polished, and refined. Hank is wearing a black shirt, dark washed jeans, and a black cotton wristband adorns one of his wrists. There's a water bottle on the table next to him. 

He would be lying if he said he hadn't been thinking about Hank. He thinks about him a lot. Every time their eyes meet in practice, or across the locker room. Or the times he has watched the door to the showers being opened, Hank stepping through the billowing steam, looking almost spectral. A crisp, white towel slung low on his hips, as the water trickles over his tanned limbs. The water collects in odd spaces - the hollow in the base of Hank's throat, the tips of his fingers, at the ends of his hair - before they disappear. 

The sight takes Brad's breath away every time. He feels his throat go dry, all speech failing him in those moments. He's thought about how he just wants to cross the floor and loosen the towel on Hank's hips, let it drop to the floor. He wants to leave half-moon marks from his fingers on Hank's shoulder. Wants to hear the little gasp Hank lets out against his ear as he palms his cock. 

"Brad?" Hank sets his guitar aside, and gets to his feet. 

Brad can feel his heart skip a beat as Hank approaches, can smell his cologne, and soap. Hank's hair is dishevelled, but immaculate. Part of it falls into his eyes, and Brad wants to reach out and brush it back, if just to feel the silken texture between his fingers. 

He settles for running the tip of his tongue along his bottom lip, before he says, "Hm?"

"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you've been avoiding me lately." Hank's grinning, sliding an arm around Brad's waist, before he splays his fingers over the small of his back. The warmth from Hank's hand, combined with the warmth in the room, causes Brad to groan. 

"Yeah, I've been … I've had um, a few things I've had to deal with."

"Things?"

Brad whispers: "I saw Vince. When he was in town with the Lightning."

Instead of sliding his arm away, like Brad was half-expecting, Hank drags a hand through his hair, forehead creasing in thought. He smiles, sliding his other hand down Brad's arm. 

"I know."

Brad's head snaps up at that comment. He has his mouth half-open to ask Hank how he could possibly know, but the look Hank's eyes have is enough to make the words die on the tip of Brad's tongue. 

"How was it?" Hank asks, sliding his hand from Brad's back, fingers sliding down Brad's shirtfront.

"We don't have to talk about this, Hank."

"On the contrary," Hank starts, and with languid fingers starts to undo the buttons on Brad's shirt. "I think we should."

Brad swallows, trying desperately to get rid of the lump in his throat. "You don't want -" he pauses as Hank places his palm on his chest, feels as the warmth floods his system. He tries again: "You don't want to hear about -"

"Sure I do." Hank slides Brad's shirt down his arms, but it gets caught on Brad's wrists. "How the fuck do you get this shirt off?"

"Hank," Brad says.

"Shh," Hank mutters. "It's okay. I get it."

Brad wants to protest. Because how could Hank possibly understand what he was going through? But, as their eyes meet, Brad doesn't question it further. Hank's eyes are bright, soft, and understanding. 

Brad takes hold of Hank's wrist, runs his thumb over the pulse point, before he undoes the tiny buttons at the cuffs of his shirt, before he tosses it aside. "Vince came over to my place that day. Told me he needed me. Begged me, almost."

"Jesus Christ," Hank chokes out, before he drags his hands through Brad's hair, and hauls Brad against him. "Keep talking," he ordered, nipping at Brad's earlobe.

Brad arches into him, hands sneaking under Hank's shirt, before they dip slightly into the waistband of his jeans. 

He stops when he realizes Hank's not wearing anything under his jeans. 

"Fuck," Brad mutters.

Hank sighs. "You didn't honestly expect me to wear anything else with these jeans, did you?" He arches an eyebrow. "Does it turn you on?"

"You realize that's all I'll be thinking about when you're on stage?" 

"Maybe that's what I was … oh, fuck, yes."

Brad smirked as he watched Hank's expression change as he cupped him through the rough fabric of his jeans. "Vince turned me so I was facing the door, told me how hard he was for me." 

"Shit, Brad, don't stop talking."

Brad managed to undo the button, and get the zipper lowered on Hank's jeans, before he twisted his hand on Hank's cock, eliciting a moan from him. "Told me he had been waiting to fuck me."

"Oh, god," Hank gasps.

This was incredibly fucked up, Brad thinks, but he was so beyond caring now, especially hearing Hank as he gasped and moaned against his ear. His voice thick, and brimming with lust. 

"Yeah?" Brad challenges, nipping at Hank's neck with his teeth. "You wanna hear how Vince asked me who I was fucking now that he's in Florida?" 

"Did you … did you tell him about us?" Hank gasped out, fingers digging into Brad's hair, tugging on the strands to the point of pain, as Brad moved his hand faster. 

"I couldn't think straight as I felt his hand on my dick … asking me if he was better than _you_."

"Jesus … shit," Hank says. 

"Are you going to come?" Brad demanded. 

"If you keep … if you keep talking like this I … I … _fuck_ , Brad …"

Brad let his eyes fall to the space between their bodies, trembling slightly as he watched his fingers move over Hank's length. He let his fingers slide over the veins, his thumb pressing into the slit at the head of Hank's cock, before he leaned in slightly, his mouth hovering over Hank's ear. "I came in his mouth after I hung up the phone."

Hank's eyes were wide in realization at Brad's omission. He grips Brad's arm as he tips over the precipice. "Oh, fuck," he groans, as he feels his cock twitch, before he spills all over Brad's hand.

Brad milks every last drop from Hank, before Hank tells him to stop. Hank leans his head against Brad's shoulder, gasping for air, his breathing ragged and harsh.

"Touch me," Brad whispers, taking Hank's hand and leading it to the front of his pants. 

Hank unzips Brad's pants, palms Brad's cock with a dry hand. Brad lets his head fall back to the wall, as he arches his hips into Hank's touch. 

Hank pulls his hand away quickly to dip them into his mouth, wetting them. He reaches for Brad's cock again, curling them around his dick, swirling his thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-come down Brad's length. 

" _Jag vill att du så mycket, jag glömt hur man andas_ ," Hank murmurs against Brad's ear.

A quiet moan escapes Brad's mouth. "Keep going," he says.

" _När jag tänker om dig, på orden försvinner_."

Brad gasps for air in small mouthfuls, feeling as Hank strokes down his length. Hank uses his leg to widen Brad's stance, as he leans in, tongue licking the shell of Brad's ear.

"More?" Hank asks, nibbling at Brad's earlobe.

Brad whimpers. "Don't stop," he pleads.

" _Jag kan inte tänka när du är i mina armar_."

"Oh, fuck, Hank, please don't stop." Brad can feel his cock leaking, feels as the heat trickles down his length. He rocks his hips forward, mouth half-open as he gasps out Hank's name. 

" _Jag tror att jag älskar dig_ ," Hank says.

Brad bites his bottom lip. "Oh, _fuck_. Jesus shit, Hank …" Brad feels as his cock spurts its heat over Hank's hand. He grips Hank's hip, his head resting on Hank's chest, as he shudders and lets out small sobs as Hank slides his hand away. 

It's a long while before either of them speaks. When Brad looks up, Hank is eyeing him intently. His eyes searching. Brad thinks he knows what the look is, because he knows it well. It was the same look he was sure he had in his eyes at Vince's wedding. 

He has to look away then. Brad reaches for a nearby towel and wipes his hand on it slowly, his back to Hank.

"I can't forget," he finally says, tone cryptic. 

The three words hang in the air, spinning around their heads like a low suspended fog. 

"I know," Hank replies.

Brad is about to ask Hank what his last words in Swedish were, when they hear a knock on the door. 

Hank straightens his clothes, makes sure Brad is presentable, before he cracks the door open slightly.

"Five minutes."

When Hank turns back to look at Brad, he sees Brad is making his way towards the half-open door.

" _Le cœur a ses raisons_ ," Brad whispers before he slips from the room. 

Hank doesn't quite know how to respond to that.

* * *

\- _Jag vill att du så mycket jag glömt hur man andas_ \- I want you so much, I forget how to breathe.

\- _När jag tänker om dig, på orden försvinner_ \- When I think about you, the words disappear.

\- _Jag kan inte tänka när du är i mina armar_ \- I can't think when you're in my arms.

\- _Jag tror att jag älskar dig_ \- I think I love you.


End file.
